


lex talionis

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [3]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, Choking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knifeplay, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, sado/masochist relationship, semi-sweet J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: In an unexpected turn of events, he hands you the knife.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696144
Kudos: 47





	lex talionis

**Author's Note:**

> lex talionis: the law of retaliation, whereby a punishment resembles the offense committed in kind and degree.

You never considered it before, the thrill of having a knife lightly skimmed along the soft planes of your body, naked in your entirety as the flat edge of it smoothed across the hard line of your clavicle. Call it innocence, or naivety when it came to the more outlandish kinks in the broad spectrum of sexual deviance’s, but he had opened your eyes to a multitude of things that you’d never considered before. 

It brought a thrill; you laid out on the bed like a picture and he admired you with the knife in his hand, absently twirling the tip of it against his gloved forefinger. He looked appreciative, beneath all the greasepaint and the perpetual malice that he harbored, it was there. It gave you a sense of importance, a bit of courage as there was no one else in the world who could draw out that lustful glimmer in eyes that otherwise appeared indifferent. 

He had taken off the trench and the blazer beneath, his vest was currently hanging open to portray the whimsical design of his dress shirt. You wished to tear it off his body, to see the myriad of scattered tattoos and scars that marred and decorated his skin beneath it all.

“You know, you really have a way of…adding _tension_ to these moments.” You remarked, daring to break the silence with a bit of a taunting lilt. You drew your legs close, languidly rubbing your knees together as you ran your hands up your stomach, skirting over your breast before laying them above your head, crossed at the wrists in a clear display of submission. The edge of his mouth curled upwards, a barely there smirk but it was the equivalent of a toothy grin in this scenario. 

“And you’ve got a way of uh, _ruining_ the _moment_ , doll.” He countered, and although it was spoken with a hard cadence, you knew full well he wasn’t mad. No, if he was mad, that glimmer of appreciation in his eyes would have fizzled out quicker than a cigarette butt smashed into an ashtray. It was still there, maybe even more so as he took the knife and placed it between his teeth. You watched with keen interest as he tugged his gloves off, tossing them onto the bed before shrugging the vest off and bringing those long, paint speckled fingers to his tie, working it loose around his neck. 

You expected him to use it on you; that was almost always entailed, if he took the time to take it off he would take the time to wrap it around your wrists ( _”Why waste the, ah, opportunity?”_ he had remarked, before), maybe wind it around the wrought iron bars of the headboard if he were feeling especially deviant. This time, he loosened it just enough to pull over his head before promptly tossing it somewhere you didn’t bother to look. He plucked the knife from his mouth and advanced, dropping a knee onto the edge of the mattress and slightly dipping it. 

“How’s about we try something _new?”_ Not the first time you’ve heard those words, flashbacks of the first time he cut you or that time he had hogtied you skirted across your mind. It made you shiver with excitement, an intrigued hum sounding from your throat as he traced the blade up the inside of your thigh. You spread your legs for him as he moved further, curving upwards to glide it over your hipbone. 

“Should I be scared?” You tested, breathless as he brought the knife to your breast, tracing the sinuous flesh before taking the flat edge and swiping it across your hardened nipple. It made you shudder, the tug of the blade adding an extra modicum of innate fear to your anticipation. He grinned this time, flashing you with a toothy yellowed smile you wished nothing more than to taste. 

“Always, sweetheart.” He was hovering above you now, his hips pressed firmly between your thighs, still clad in his pinstripe slacks and you felt his erection through the coarse fabric. You shamelessly rolled your hips upwards, grinding yourself against him while bringing your hands to his chest. Palms flat, smoothing over the fabric before fluidly working the buttons. The knife was still in his hand, resting idly beside your head as he planted his forearms on either side of you. Keeping your attention locked with his, you gradually worked down his shirt, splitting it open and revealing the hardness of his sternum, the raised lines of faded scars you often times traced in the dead of night when exhaustion finally caught up with him. You wondered about each one, what stories were behind them, but you never asked–he wouldn’t answer, and if he did, it wouldn’t be truthful.

You continued downwards, suddenly feeling timid as he let you work on the fastens of his slacks. It felt like the calm before the storm; something new, he said. This wasn’t new (well, maybe the patience he exhibited as you fumbled with the button and fly of his pants was) but all together this simply felt out of place. He was _too_ calm, and as you took your unspoken permission further, slipping your hand beneath the band of his briefs to wrap your fingers around his cock, you began internally questioning his motives. Only _he_ could fill you with a sense of uncertainty in a setting so uncharacteristically domestic– _when will he bite me? Choke me, or (and this was the most pressing, with the knife still in your peripheral) when will he cut me?_

None of those happened, instead he dipped down and kissed you. It was sudden, quick and you gave a surprised squeak into his mouth and absently tightened your hold on his length. J grunted against you, shifted and brought his hand between your bodies, running his fingers over your clit and gracing you with a couple of wistful circles, before he was sliding them further, dipping them between your folds and slowly easing two inside you. You hiccuped a moan and reacted in kind; languidly stroking his cock beneath the restriction of his pants, which you instantly found annoying. You opened your mouth, let him in and hurriedly used your heels to shuck the slacks further down his hips. It wasn’t graceful by any means, but you were running solely on lust now, the need steadily rising within you until the only thing that mattered was getting him inside you. 

He grinned, his scars felt on your cheeks as he curled his fingers against your walls, pressing down on your g-spot and drawing a whine from your mouth. Rocking your hips against him, you reached for him and combed your fingers through his hair, grabbing a handful and pulling. He hummed pleasantly, and you were the one to smile that time; blissful and followed shortly with a moan. It was no secret he had an affinity to pain, whether it be doling it out or taking it himself. He didn’t often seek it out, but he didn’t shy from it either. 

The embrace gradually progressed, pulling away from each other just long enough for him to kick his pants and briefs off with a frustrated huff of breath (they caught on his ankle, and it would have been funny if you weren’t swelling with arousal) before he settled between your legs once more, grabbing hold of your waist with the knife still in hand. It nicked your flank as he tugged you close, and you flinched and gave an involuntary moan. The cut wasn’t intentional, but it drew you from your lust riddled reverie and back to the question; what is he going to do?

“Are you going to cut me?” You asked, blunt. You were well past the point of timidly skirting around him; the fear he instilled in you at the start of this–- _whatever this was,_ had faded. Although you weren’t particularly at ease around him, you weren’t terrified of him, either. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He jeered, that grin once more splitting his face. “And to think–you almost _cried_ the first time I did that. Now you’re _asking_ me for it. Gotta say, bunny-–you never cease to uh, _surprise_ me.” 

You blushed, feeling slightly embarrassed he had even brought that up, (you wouldn’t expect anything less from him) but pushed on regardless. 

“I’d rather you fuck me, if you wanna know what I’d really like.” You smoothed your palms up his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him lower and enhancing your view of his distorted features. He flicked his tongue out, gliding it along his lower lip with a curve to the corners of his mangled mouth. 

“Someone’s feeling a little _need-y”_ He goaded, pushing his hips forward; his shaft slipped along your wet cunt, heavy against your aching heat and teasing your clit. You stifled a whine and pushed back. 

“J, please-–” You huffed, “do _something_.” 

He pulled himself away then, your hands gliding down to his stomach, feeling each steady inhale and exhale he gave. He quirked his head to the side, bringing the knife wielding hand up and twirling it around in his fingers in a way that made you wary it would slip and fall. Your attention flickered from his face, looking rather amused, to the knife. He stopped his ministrations with his grasp on the handle, before extending it towards you. 

You were struck, eyeing the metal that glinted in the dim lighting of the bedroom as though it were a ruse, a trick and he would pull it back just as you reached out for it, complete with a snicker of disdain. But he held it there, giving a nudging gesture with a patient lick of his lower lip. 

“C’mon, doll–-take it.” He reached down with his other hand, grabbing your wrist and pulling your arm out before settling the knife in your trepid hand. “Now, I know you’re used to being the uh, _receiver_ –and we’ll get to that, don’t you worry. But _tonight,”_ He curled his hand around yours, closing your fingers around the hilt of the blade and you glanced from your combined grasp to his face, bewildered. “Tonight, you are gonna be a giver. _So,_ as you would say; _do something.”_

_“J–_ I don’t know about this-–I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t-–” 

“ _Hurt me?”_ He echoed, a sharp laugh following quickly after, “I’m _counting_ on it. I _want_ you to do it. I _want_ you to hurt me, because, let’s be honest here–” He licked his lip again, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling in a mock display of thought, before he guided your hand forward, pressing the blade against the middle of his sternum. Dropping his obsidian glare back to you, he grinned. 

“Why should _I_ have all the fun?” 

You swallowed thickly, gaze flickering from his wicked grin to the blade, feeling something like aroused and ambivalent in equal balance. _Something new_ ; well, he wasn’t wrong. You’d thought about this, sure–thought about being the one to carve him up for a change, but you’d never anticipated it would _happen,_ and now you’re not sure if you _should._ For all you knew it was another one of his infuriating mind games, a test and you weren’t sure what the right answer was; refuse to do it, or draw the blade down his chest like he had done so many times to you? You exhaled shakily and eyed him down with a narrowed gaze, silently asking if he was sure, if it isn’t just another one of his sick games. 

He nodded eagerly with a shift in his weight, like he was bracing himself for impact, before breathing out low, 

“Do it.” 

You took a deep breath, and pressed the knife harder, but it was restrained as though you were terrified of _actually_ cutting into him. _Why?_ Why were you so _scared_ , you couldn’t decipher it–how many times had he done this to you? Before you could steel yourself and press harder, he tightened his hold on your wrist and did it for you; he pushed his chest into the blade held firmly with your coupled hands and pressed his cock against you, sliding in as he did it. You gasped, your legs spreading on instinct as he sank into your tight heat in unison to the slow draw of the blade down his sternum. 

A sight to behold; his face was twisted with an undiluted form of utter ecstasy you don’t think you’d ever seen on him. He groaned low and deep in his chest, the restraint he held despite the wash of sensations that he no doubt felt was showcased in the ripple of muscle in his cheeks. He clenched his jaw, eased himself into your tight heat until he bottomed out, and only then did he loosen his hold on your hand. You were entranced with the crimson that pearled to the surface in your wake; he bled just like any other man, but somehow with _him_ it was _mesmerizing_. 

“Do it again.” He bit out, his lids fluttering open to showcase the darkened depths of his pupils. He was _high_ on it, vibrating with a carnal lust that made you clench in your own throes of arousal. 

_Fuck, he looks unhinged, he looks_ animalistic _._

You’d come to the conclusion that no, you’d never seen him like _this_ , and you wanted to see more. You steadied your hand to the best of your ability and he began rocking himself against you, as though he was intentionally making it harder for you. You knew that wasn’t the case, you experienced firsthand how it felt to be cut into, to have pleasure to mix with that pain–-it was _intoxicating_. He gave that sinful sensation to you, and you wanted to give it back. You reached out, held onto his neck and dug your fingers into the tawny flesh to balance yourself before bringing the knife to the hard line of his clavicle. 

He tilted his head, giving you better access and you didn’t have the mind to be impacted by the subtle display of submission before he was fucking you harder, grunting with impatience. 

_“Do. It.”_ He snapped, and you did; you threw caution out the window and dug the knife into the pliant flesh above his collarbone, dragging it downwards and over the hard bone before dipping to his pectoral. The blade was dangerously sharp, going deeper than you had intended, slicing into his skin until the blood flowed rather than beaded. The sound that rose in his chest was feral, loud and shaken, and he dropped himself down and grabbed a handful of your hair, startling you. 

_“Fuck.”_ He hissed, before smashing his mouth over yours. He kissed you vehemently, panting heavy and thrusting harder, driving himself into your tight heat with reckless abandon. You dropped the knife, wrapped your arms around his shoulders and took it, moaned in his mouth as he steadily broke you apart. You felt the hot wet of his blood dribble onto your chest, your legs winding around his waist and digging into the small of his back, silently pleading for more despite the already fervent back of and forth of his hips. Then he was pulling himself away, pushing your legs higher against the backs of your plush thighs and digging his fingers into your muscles, spreading you obscenely and shifting you in such a way it felt as though he were impaling you. 

You cried out, arched your back and found that his hold was steel as the sound of his hips meeting your inner thighs resounded like a muffled drum in the back of your mind-–you screwed your eyes shut, seeing phosphenes behind closed lids. He pushed deep, long strokes that had him nearly slipping out before thrusting back in with an audible grunt every time. You were going to come, riding on the edge of bursting when the tension on your left leg loosened and suddenly his fingers were around your throat. It wasn’t a brutal hold, but he squeezed your neck just hard enough to turn your high moans into a staccato of raspy mewls, your eyes opened to see he was watching you, searing you with hooded arousal.

You wanted him to come with you, _needed_ him to–to share in that deafening moment of euphoria that made you feel as though you were riding high in an abyss of delirium, where your blood turned to magma, and you burned from the inside out. _You wanted to burn together._ You reached out, hands parting ways; one grabbed hold of his hair, yanking him down and closing the distance with a fierce bite to his lower lip, the other dug nails into the fresh laceration along his collarbone, splitting it further and drawing a patter of fresh blood down to your breasts. 

His own nails broke skin on your inner thigh, his hand around your throat became crushing as he stuttered a deep groan against your mouth. It was an odd noise to hear from him; sounding agonized, stumbling over with a break in his voice as he fucked you hard enough it hurt. the familiarity of that pain pushed you over the edge, like a forceful shove against your body you were falling, landing in that abyss where nothing mattered, nothing at all. It enveloped you, your vision mottled with black spots and your body ignited with a jolting pass of electricity, winding through every nerve, every crevice until it consumed you. 

A flood of copper invaded your senses, your body having gone rigid, your teeth sinking so far into his lip it felt as though you’d tear it right off. You could feel the hot warmth of his blood coat your fingers as your nails burrowed into his wound. And you watched; kept your fogged attention on his face, magnified and tethered close–he knit his brows, clenched his eyes shut and you imagined you made that same face in the throes of your own release, a clear image of pain and pleasure that was foreign on him. He pushed himself deep, huffed violently against your face as he came, buried to the hilt and sending a flourish of warmth through your body. The sensation chased your orgasm so well you moaned, loosening your hold on him before falling limp against the damp linens of your mattress. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, reveling in the afterglow before bringing your hand up and absently wiping at your forehead. Your blissful smile wavered when you felt it; sticky and wet, _blood_. Blinking back into the moment, you looked at the crimson coated digits with a flip of your stomach, then you looked at him. 

He had that darkness in his eyes, the one that reminded you of an animal, the inhuman glow that heightened at the sight of spilled blood. He was looking at you intensely and you realized that he was admiring the blood on your face; the smear that had probably streaked your forehead, the mottled red that graced your lips, and to say he looked entranced was an understatement. You yourself observed the brutal cuts against his chest, the way they contrasted so sharply against the bloom of his bare skin, like fresh strokes of paint against a masterpiece. You felt akin to proud; those scars would be yours. You would trace those in the dead of night and know exactly where they came from. 

“You’re beautiful.” He said. Your heart stuttered. It didn’t sound like that of a man admiring a pretty face, but more like a morbid curator having found a macabre piece of art. You liked the way he said it, it sounded more real, more genuine than anything he could have ever said in that moment. You smiled. 

“I always loved the color red.” You mused, softly. He inhaled audibly at that, then his mouth curved, the hue of fresh blood mingling so well with his face paint it was almost undecipherable. He leaned down, kissed you softly and you licked his lip, took more of that sharp metallic flavor and savored it on your tongue. 

“Are you going to cut me?” You teased, echoing your prior question. J pulled back and mirrored the smile on your face, looking more docile now, more aware. He cupped your jaw, drawing his thumb across your lower lip with a low hum. 

_“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”_


End file.
